me in the piazza

I'm a writer, publishing both as SJ Rozan and, with Carlos Dews, as Sam Cabot. (I'm Sam, he's Cabot.) Here you can find links to my almost-daily blog posts, including the Saturday haiku I've been doing for years. BUT the blog itself has moved to my website. If you go on over there you can subscribe and you'll never miss a post. (Miss a post! A scary thought!) Also, I'll be teaching a writing workshop in Italy this summer -- come join us!
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The bad review

So imagine you get up in the morning and spend a lot of time and effort putting yourself together. You iron, polish, brush and accessorize. Finally leaving the house, you encounter two dozen people who tell you how great you look. This one loves your boots; that one compliments your hair, it's so shiny and bouncy. Another admires your classic shirt. And the little snake on the necklace -- ! You walk along thinking, maybe it's working. Maybe I'm STYLIN'!

Then you meet a guy -- a co-worker of one of the people who said you looked so great -- who says, Hey you: you're fat. Your hair should have been cut last week and it's turning gray besides. That shirt's way out of style. And reptiles on jewelry -- ! And you deflate. Because in your heart you know THIS guy's right. All those other people, you managed to get over on them, but THIS guy, he saw right through you to the fat, ugly, tasteless blob beneath.

But imagine further that you're taking this walk in the company of a friend who's handsome, graceful, charismatic, and a great dresser. This guy who saw right through you starts ripping into your friend, too. And this you can't reconcile. Your friend looks fabulous, no two ways about it. YOU should have stayed home under your rock, but how can anyone say this kind of thing about a guy who looks as terrific as your friend does?

Just when you're beginning to wonder whether maybe, just maybe, this guy might be just the teensiest bit off base, he delivers his final pronouncement: You two were bound to look ridiculous in those outfits, anyway. No one's been able to wear those clothes since Chandler and Macdonald, and no one should try.

Now you get it.

The critic strides huffily away. And you straighten the little snake necklace and, in your friend's good company, continue your morning walk.

That's what I have to say about my second review, which, if you feel the urge, you can find at

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